


one must imagine sisyphus happy

by aromaalibro



Category: Dark (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Gen, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 18:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20278138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aromaalibro/pseuds/aromaalibro
Summary: mikkel always loves jonas.or, four times in which jonas defies fate for his father, and one in which mikkel embraces it for his son.





	one must imagine sisyphus happy

**Author's Note:**

> title from albert camus’ famous philosophical essay the “myth of sisyphus”. 
> 
> two things, you will take the headcannon that hannah loved her husband out of my cold, dry hands. and the other is that i don’t remember at what hour mikkel died, but i think it was around midday. 
> 
> if i could nobody will hurt mein deutscher Sohn Mikkel ever again.

all the lights flicker. their hands tremble holding the flashlights and they give a step backwards, caution on their feet. a deep rumble comes from the caves, echoing through the forest and stirring leaves and branches. it’s the wake of an ancient beast and mikkel can’t stop looking.

there they are, six teenagers shouting and mikkel just wants them to shut up because he can’t hear anything. don’t they see it? no owls or crickets make any sound. everything is put on hold while the black of the depths spins left, right, left and right, calling.

calling them.

calling _him._

a hand grabs his and breaks the spell.

“let’s go!” jonas says, pulling him ahead. he takes a last gaze into the caves and whatever fascination settles into dread on his stomach, and that’s when he realizes they are the only ones still around and they have to- _need to_ -run. his legs mismatch, making him clumsy, but jonas hand on his keeps him standing. but it is not enough, they must run faster and they do, until he is the one pulling jonas through the woods. and he runs faster than during any p.e., faster than when kurt stole his backpack outside school, faster than the play-chases at the countryside in vacations, faster than when he had to run from magnus punches, faster than jonas, who is… he stops dead in his tracks.

his eyes, wide open in fear, search in the dark.

jonas isn’t there anymore. 

a cold breeze blows, making thin hairs at the back of his exposed neck stand up. mikkel pulls up his hoodie, hand trembling, and puts his arms in an embrace around himself. to keep the heat in, he repeats in his head. mother had told him before leaving to pick warmer clothes, but it wasn’t that cold when he had gone out, was it? He moves his head, breath still hitching. around the trees don’t appear to be as thick as they were… he tries to focus on the outline of the trees further than eight feet and sees nothing. 

mikkel feels desperation rise up his throat and forces it down. he shuts his eyes, counts to five and opens them back again. where were the street lights? he searches again. this was not even a big forest. he had walked around ten minutes from the road to the caves. he would be fine. he just had to find-

leaves creak behind him and he turns quickly, as his left foot gets stuck. it’s something heavy and his body wobbles a bit, tries to regain balance and falls to the ground.

mikkel cries as pain explodes on his leg. quickly, he presses his fingers to the bruise. it’s only a bump, not a cut. still breathing heavily, he straightens his back to stand up again, when he sees the darkness move and a flash of something, wait, could it be-

“jonas?” he croaks, his voice barely raising over the night’s noises. one breath passes, then two, he repeats louder “jonas?”

on his feet, he moves his head around. there is no one there, no shape to see, no sound to hear.

“jonas!”

it takes minutes and many names before he hears a voice in the distance, to his left. it should be a voice, mikkel knew what the forest sounded like and he did not want to spend any other day there. he calls again, and the sound stops. he opens his mouth for a third time, when he feels a doubt creeping on him. his heart starts beating wildly, recalling past stories of bears and wolves and creepy clowns and slenderman-

“mikkel!”

a blinding burst of light erupts and mikkel covers his eyes with his hand, shielding himself, when he hears the rustling leaves come closer and stop. jonas is very pale and worried lines show around his face, but he places his hands in the kid’s shoulders and:

“mikkel” his voice is agitated “are you okay?”

later, it’s raining when they step into the light. at the middle of the road are the rest of them, their bodies facing each other in a circle. franziska catches sight of them first, jumping in her place. she pokes magnus in the ribs and magnus curses as jonas and him come closer. for a moment, an strange expression crosses his brother’s face, but then he leans into his friends again and they begin to laugh. on cue, bartosz high-fives him.

“…you should have seen your faces” magnus repeats, his cheeks red from laughter, putting his arm around an awkward franziska.

“it’s like the drowned woman, but better” bartosz points out.

“idiots!” martha yells, her mouth distorted in a grimace “i hate you!”

mikkel raises his head and stares at jonas. they still hold hands from returning from the woods, and mikkel can feel him trembling. maybe it’s the rain, which is soaking them and making mikkel wonder why are all teenagers idiots. even his usually-reasonable-sister, who could be kicking both bartosz and magnus in their legs and their bellies and everywhere exposed anywhere warm and dry.

“let’s go” mikkel says and jonas nods, his head somewhere else. they walk and the kid leads the way. he knows how to get home from this part of the town. a square they go and then the next one and jonas hasn’t reacted much yet. whatever happened to him in the woods? had he seen a ghost?

mikkel’s stomach growls.

more importantly, is there any food left in the fridge?

far, far away from them, no one could hear the other jonas, the one with ashes in his hair, blood in his neck and horror in his heart. hiding behind an oak tree, crying for forgiveness until the world becomes nothing.

.

.

.

.

. 

they are them, but not really.

he doesn’t like this katharina. she is mean and aggressive, always casting him a hateful glance when they cross paths at school. perhaps it is not the glances that bother him so much, if not the vague sense of dread and hopelessness that mikkel feels afterwards when he remembers his own birth mother. that he is hated by his birth mother.

he doesn’t like this arrogant and be-better-than-you ulrich. wearing leather, smoking cigarrettes and listening metal. he tries so hard to be cool, it’s embarrassing. like magnus. at least magnus payed him attention every once in a while. he is invisible to this ulrich. he feels like the no one he knows he is.

mikkel rubs his eyes. he is so tired, even if the only activity he does these days is sleep. there is a weight on him, a resignation. he is part of this world now (he is michael, michael, michael) and the longer he takes to accept god’s plan, the more he suffers. he should know it. how long until the past fades away? why does he want it? why does he dread it?

he hears a tingling noise behind him and he stops walking. frowning, he takes off his schoolbag, but all his keychains are in its place. his fingers graze the latest one, a souvenir from one of mama’s friends from an art museum. it has a nice blue in it, although he could not say why. mama inés had asked about painting one of his bedroom’s walls, the one that isn’t wood, of course, and perhaps… perhaps he knows which color to use.

mikkel takes a last lazy look around and freezes.

he ought to run but can’t. he doesn’t want to run. he doesn’t know what to do.

because there, a few feet apart in the middle of the road, he is.

“mikkel…” jonas raises his arms in cautious movements as he steps closer. his gaze is open and tearful and painfully familiar for an alien world. “mikkel, it’s time to go home.”

it might as well had been a war declaration. mikkel threw himself on the other boy, his anger on his fists that hit and hit with all his might. there is a desperation in him that he doesn’t, cannot understand. it makes his heart beat faster and his eyes blink quickly and he is (was) so past wishing for an escape and being both the butterfly and the person and everything this nightmare brought- the teenager turns, shrinking and the change makes him able to think again.

“wait-“

“how could you?” he screams, before launching at him again. because this had been jonas. who helped him with his homework and asked him about the magic tricks. who never kicked him or called him annoying. jonas, who mikkel would have traded for any of his brothers in no time. who mikkel trusted so fucking much.

jonas, who betrayed him.

“mikkel, calm down!” his voice has a slight tremble and mikkel feels stronger hands catch his wrists “please, i’m not-“

“why?” mikkel struggles, pushes and pulls and fights. he starts kicking, or trying to at least. jonas tries to speak again when he kicks sand into his mouth and nose.

“why?” he repeats, barely audible over the teen’s coughs.

he is kicking everything now, the peddles that fly away, the dust itself that gets into his nostrils and the bigger rocks that hurt his fingers. and he is tired.

“stop! stop!”

“i deserve to know!” he screams, draining himself at last “i need to know why!” his knees buckle underneath him and he half-falls to the ground, jonas still holding his wrists. he ends up dangling for an instant, before he is being let go, like a marionette with cords broken.

“why?” his eyes start watering, and oh god, he should not cry, he is about to be twelve and boys don’t cry but its too much. seeing jonas its too much, its like seeing his dad, his dad half mad and senile and painstakingly dying. it is a hopeless endeavor that has no end but his own suffering.mikkel was growing used to this world, used to ‘the pretending game’ like (not) mama inés calls it. now if his supposed father and this supposed jonas could just go away, that would be great. 

he waits in the ground, for boots walking away and for him not to cry. only one of those happens.

when he raises his head again, jonas is still, watching him quietly. his cheeks and ears are reddish and there is a slight slump in the way he stands.

“i made a mistake” he says, meeting his gaze. “but i want to do right by it. will you let me do it?” his stead voice quivers and the jonas who abandoned him in cold blood becomes old, trustworthy jonas, with his old yellow coat. mikkel doesn’t know why, but there is this… wave of emotion for him he feels abruptly. he can’t be angry anymore. maybe he never was.

“can’t… can’t i know why?” he mutters, a bit light on the head, drained.

“no” jonas kneels in front of him and the next thing the boy knows, he is hugging him and mikkel closes his eyes. again, he thinks, like father. there, on the smell of sulfur of his coat, he nods twice before letting go.

the way to the caves has no conversation. jonas tells him of his disappearance, of the town missing him, of his family searching him relentlessly. mikkel hears without listening. had somebody asked him afterwards about the path itself: following jonas through the maze of rocks to a bigger space with a tiny, golden machine with pieces of clockwork; mikkel would not be able to recall any of it with certainty.

it is only when they step back into the light and into the road that mikkel wakes up again.

this is really happening, he thinks. the car that speeds past him is beautiful and finally right. he looks around, to the posters in the bus stop to the lines in the street. this is really happening and no one could take it away from him. he feels his heart grow larger in his chest. mikkel is back home.

the firsts to recognize them are some cops (wöller? mikkel vaguely recalls seeing him at family meetings, back when he had two eyes) while they were making their way downtown. jonas is thinner, with bags under his eyes and his blond hair is as unkempt as his clothes, while mikkel looks well but tired. they fuss and ask many question and after being met with only silence, insist on taking both of them to the police station. mikkel frowns when the cops ask if they were being kept together by their kidnapper. jonas mumbles words under his breath and accommodates his coat’s collar tighter around his neck.

in the front seat, wöller leans closer to his companion.

“we should ask for doctors.”

aunt hannah is already there when they arrive, her thin figure running to meet them in the parking lot. jonas only has time to stand up before she embraces him. mikkel watches them from the car seat, slowly untying his belt. despite the… the… the correctness he feels in his own time, he can’t shake a remorse in the back of his head. his blood family may be on their way after his disappearance, but he had just disappeared from a nurse in other time.

“are you okay? what had they do to you? oh, oh my- jonas, no” his yellow coat is open, showing jonas’ scars and dirty, bloody clothing. mikkel did not want to stare, but he could not stop looking even when wordless aunt hannah presses her son against herself in a bear hug and jonas’ cheeks have tears running down on them.

“ma’am, we should take them inside to testify.” the other cop says, and mikkel nods, uneasy but safe in a way he had not felt in months. he hops out the car and the kahnwalds come closer to the gate, when aunt hannah sees him. she extends one hand to grab his and squeeze it, still next to her son.

“ulrich and katharina were so worried. i’m glad you are back.” she says with a smile and mikkel swears he has never noticed how familiar her big brown eyes are.

“i” mikkel’s voice betrays him, sounding small and doubtful, “i missed being here too.”

“it’s all over, i promise you that. everything you had to go through is gone” she keeps holding his hand and together they pace in a strange harmony across the hall until reaching a small room. they stop there, waiting while the policemen seem to be arguing about something in the next room.

mikkel hears an odd, sharp sound at his left and turns to jonas, whose gaze seems to be far away. his neck’s wound looks worse under the yellow light and is he older? mikkel wonders if he had really been kidnapped, or worse, tortured.

“what?” aunt hannah is back on alert “is something the matter? what’s wrong?”

“what if it’s not over?” he replies, turning from the wall. the air turns heavy around them, as their gazes meet for a brief moment. more than knowing the truth, there is pity and sadness in the teen’s eyes. _understand me,_ jonas says to mikkel, _forgive me_. it puts him on edge.

aunt hannah tries to say something when jonas continues.

“how did dad and you meet?” she touches his son’s forehead before grabbing his hands. confused, a small frown forms between her eyebrows. “please, mom. it is important”

“i don’t see how-“

“please” jonas begs. there is a the sound of wheels outside, of brakes being pushed and shouts that are background noise to the three of them. aunt hannah (it sure is a common name) opens her mouth and moves her head, searching words in the air.

it takes her a moment, while mikkel gives a sharp breath as a bad feeling comes over him.

“your father, well, he and I were at the same school. he was a bit odd, never completely feeling at ease around anyone. with his jokes and magic tricks…” the words acquired more fluidity the more she talkes, like memories being awakened “we met at the hospital when your grandmother was still a nurse. inés kahnwald. she adopted michael that autumn and-“

the doors of the hallway burst open. hannah flinches, interrupting herself, while the few remaining policemen on duty stop their conversation to stare at the storming family. mikkel’s other family running to have their missing son again.

and mikkel has to lean against the wall, because he does understand.

so that is when this reality crumbles apart.

.

.

.

.

. 

“ultimate fist bump?” jonas says, extending his arm.

a shiver runs through his body, leaving him dry. “why had you say that?”

“i know, dad”

no, it’s something else, like a dagger piercing his soul. the man’s voice becomes agitated, even against his will. this is his beloved son, he has nothing to fear: “i do not know what you are talking about… i really don’t”.

“dad” his voice is soft. jonas tries to smile and fails by a long shot, but keeps staring at his father like he is witnessing a miracle. it makes (michael) mikkel tic and glace quickly around the corners of the room and back at his oddly long-haired son. wait, hadn’t he left the house with different pants?

“mikkel” he chokes down a laugh as he tries again “i know you are mikkel nielsen.”

no.

_no._

no, this is not happening.

<strike>michael</strike> mikkel is shaking. it comes from the very inside of him and crawls out of his skin. he places one feet behind to step back, to run, but what would he accomplish with that? it is the truth that has come and he had waited for it too long.

he has waited an entire lifetime, dreamt of it a thousand times over as he grew up trapped in a parallel nightmare that slowly turned into his only reality. there were times in which he got so caught up in the moment, he forgot the truth, but those times had vanished in the decades he witnessed his older brother’s and sister’s births. interacting with magnus and then martha always made him anxious, in those old meetings he sometimes could not escape from. it is a very small town, after all. but watching himself as a baby, then as a child, now that had made him borderline paranoid and an hermit.

he always thought it would keep him safe. but now truth has arrived shielded in a yellow coat and mikkel is lost. how could he deal with it? how could he explain his actions all these years? he has felt like a coward for so long, a passive watcher with no power whatsoever. he should have done something, he should have said something. this nightmare, would anyone see it? will they turn away from him?

“i’m sorry” he mumbles, or maybe just thinks, he isn’t sure, his head is spinning and he needs to hold onto something. he has never felt so scared in his entire life, and without this secret he lays more exposed than before. jonas hesitates, before moving forward.

“it’s okay” the teen assures him.

“i’m sorry” he repeats, before being pulled into a hug. he closes his eyes as he feels them watering and his chest shaking again. it’s okay, he had said, and a wave of relief bursts in his chest. jonas understands.

but this isn’t completely _his_ jonas, right?

the house is in complete silence. in the backyard, tree branches hit the house walls, moved by the wind. a storm is coming.

when he feels like he can walk again, mikkel squeezes his son’s arm (it’s thinner) and asks jonas if he has eaten, walking to their kitchen. he searches in the fridge for leftover pizza or something sweet, while the other waits patiently next to him. it’s like he thinks mikkel will vanish into thin air from a second to the next one.

heating the food, he wonders what exactly this is about.

jonas looks for cutlery in a drawer and then sits at the table without making a sound. he waits until his father places the plate in front of him and only then he shifts his attention to the food. after finding two mugs, mikkel takes the sit next to him.

he places the brown mug on the left and the beige one on the right, both of them upside down. then, he asks with a raspy voice:

“so, when are you?”

jonas gives one last bite and pushes the place to the middle of the table.

“almost a year into the future” he says, looking at him again. mikkel nods. it makes sense, his appearance hasn’t changed that much yet. but what doesn’t really fit its this affection, this care in traveling in time to tell him he knows everything. the pieces don’t fit together.

a doubt creeps on him “where is your father? oh, where is the me from your time?” jonas flinches and averts his gaze “jonas” he calls again. he looks distraught and mikkel doesn’t want to push him but he must know.

“does something… happen to me? in your time?”

the grip of his fingers becomes stronger on the table. his jonas had never looked like this, this one had seen too much. he can’t seem to form the words.

“an accident?” he guesses. a moment passes. then, the briefest of all nods. he moves his chair closer and holds him by his shoulder. his son’s dark golden hair are everything he sees, it is too long. had he been alive, he would have already told him to cut it.

he always thought they would have more time together.

“it’s fine” he wants to add something else, but can’t. he isn’t sure what one says when learning one will soon die. there is a heaviness on his chest, but right now he is more concerned about this shadow of his son.

“can i… can i stay with you? i’ll sleep in the attic” jonas asks. mikkel tries to think clearly, he is the adult here, he should do it. the teen adds “your jonas won’t come back until after midnight.”

there are things he isn’t telling him but he can’t judge him for them. nor can he deny him spending hours together, especially knowing soon he won’t be able to.

“sure, sure. this is your house. i think we have a spare mattress-“

“in grandma’s room” jonas finishes. he stands up. “i’ll go get it.” mikkel watches him go through the hall until he follows as well. he wants to know more about this jonas. maybe how to help how lost he is. he asks about the school (not much going on), hannah (she is a bit absent and went back to smoking, but fine), the upcoming elections, soccer, winden.

they don’t mention time travel at all.

in the attic, jonas spends time looking at his paintings. he paces the room slowly and then returns to the piece below the chimney.

“why was it? that you became an artist. i can’t quite recall” jonas says. mikkel looks at his works in progress and smiles. he is quite proud of this round, the colors match each other perfectly and so do the strokes. “unemployment among the magicians?”

“i forgot the tricks from my book one by one. hard to become a performer without them.” he pauses and then continues, jokingly “and yes, they were tricks. not real magic, as you might have believed.”

it’s good, seeing him taking a more relaxed stance than the one he had hours ago. yes, that’s what mikkel must do. make his son’s life a little bit better.

“you didn’t try to make your own?”

“yes, it was awful. i tried to impress your mother with some of them on one or two occasions.” he makes a grimace “it did take her a while to forget them.”

“i had pay good money to see them.”

“ask hannah” mikkel replies, before thinking it better “or don’t mention it.”

they both paused for a moment, just hearing the teardrops falling violently against the ceiling. it was almost musical, the way they did it, and mikkel had the sudden perfect image for another painting.

“were you ever tempted with telling her about… you?” 

“oh, i did. multiple times. i don’t think your mother ever listened.”

he snorts, remembering one of those times. how hannah’s face had appeared serious and her grave voice when she asked him to say it again, only to burst laughing at the end of the sentence. he had been far too captivated by her joy to mind. he still could recall every detail of her hand around her mouth and the twinkle in her pupils. yes, those were the good days. two orphans of winden who relied in each other for their sanity.

in the background, he feels a touch on his elbow. he blinks back to reality. jonas has a frowned brow and his face illuminated by the low light is way paler than it should be.

“sorry, what did you say?”

“i asked about this one” he points to the next work, the one hanging from the chimney’s arm. “what does it mean?”

mikkel does a double take at the canvas. can’t he see- he has not an artistic bone in him, mikkel admits. really.

they make a little space around the chaos for sitting in the old wooden chairs and talk until their the eyelids become heavy and their throats thirsty. no matter how many jokes he cracks, how relieving the memories he brings back, mikkel still sees the darkness across his sons’ face. he wonders if there is anything at this point he could do to erase it.

the sound of a car, first in the street, next coming into the garden, makes them both turn their heads.

“must be mom and me, coming back” mutters jonas.

“yes, i must go down” mikkel feels a small twitch of sadness “i don’t want you to wonder where i am… we shouldn’t-”

“okay” he agrees quickly. his son stands up and walks to the mattress on the floor. he moves it closer to the radiator.

it should be easy. whatever ghosts haunt jonas, they will not hurt him here. mikkel puts one foot on the steps and waits there. but has he done enough? is this what his child needs from him? clearing his throat, he speaks up:

“jonas… are you well?”

the boy unties his shoelaces on the mattress.

“i’ll be better tomorrow, trust me.”

_trust me._

those words, watching him make his bed and pull out his shoes, stirs a memory in him. that it had been jonas the one to guide him through the caves and mikkel can almost see it now, that tomorrow in the morning cops will search the whole town for him. in the grocery, behind the cashier and on the door, posters will be pasted with his child self on them. he would pay his fruits and vegetables, feign sadness for the missing mikkel and then hide. maybe in the hospital again.

this web they are dangling in… mikkel thinks he believes in god, but he also believes there are questions better left unanswered and matters better left unbothered. he doesn’t really want to know why or how they travelled, not anymore. and he doesn’t want to know if his son has betrayed him yet or not.

“see you tomorrow” jonas says in a calm voice and gets inside the covers.

he doesn’t really care if he has already been betrayed. 

down the stairs, he glances one last time at the attic’s trap door. if he has to choose, he would do it all over again for that boy.

next morning, mikkel waits for his wife and his son to leave. if he flinches too much while they remain in the second floor (too close to the trap door), or if the cooks more than usual, they do not say anything.

he takes out an empty plate and fills it with scrambled eggs and toast. then he grabs the jelly, the orange juice, the knife and the salt. when the car goes out of sight he goes up to the art studio.

his other son lies in the mattress curled around himself. his breath is even and quiet, so at least he doesn’t have any nightmares. mikkel puts the breakfast in one of the desks and forgets all about waking him up. boy looks like he hasn’t had a good sleep for a long time.

jonas sleeps through the entire morning. when he paces around the room, the boy doesn’t hear him. when he turns off the radiator after it gets too warm, he doesn’t stir. and when the bell rings outside, he doesn’t move. he remains dead to the world until midday.

later, he passes him breakfast, without the eggs that he ate around ten o’clock. the toast should still be good, even if it’s cold.

more than that, watching jonas eat, one could think it is the best toast in the world.

mikkel contemplates his work on the new canvas. it’s different from the rest, that’s something. he does not use as many bright colors usually, but it had been part of the vision, and it is not like… it does not look bad. actually, it needs more yellow.

talking about yellow.

“hey, how long will i have to feel two sons? because i need to go for groceries” he says and jonas barks a laugh, his cheeks with more color than yesterday.

“until this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”

“sure, sure”

“… or tomorrow’s.” jonas says, licking the scraps of jelly from his fingers, like he did not eat it every single morning. it’s his father’s turn to laugh and shake his head.

“you seemed awfully cheerful this morning.” he comments as the teen stands up to take off the crumbles from his clothes and walks to his father “care to tell what were you doing yesterday?”

“nothing important.”

“anyways, i hope you make it official soon” he picks the yellow can, only to realize it had expired unused. maybe orange would do. “didn’t martha… uh, have a crush on you? you don’t want to lead her on.”

jonas sighs. 

“you know, i have already lived all of this. you should be telling it to _your_ jonas” he observes, taking the paint tray from the desk and standing next to his father.

“if you can make time-traveler magic-“

“dad”

“-in my version of yourself so i don’t have to die for you to listen to me-”

“you won’t die”

jonas talks as if there was no other option. mikkel raises his paintbrush and leaves a dot of orange paint on his son’s nose. some of the strands brush softly and jonas wrinkles his nose and closes his eyes. seeing him hold his breath, mikkel attempts to take the cans away from his son.

“no, careful” he warns.

too late.

he sneezes, and his body bends to the front and the cans fall to the floor, spreading paint across the already spotted floor and jonas’ dirty clothes. said boy has an ashamed look on his face until he looks at his father, who bursts laughing. things is, if he were hannah he would already be laying in the floor getting a heart attack like its an attack on his dignity, but he is mikkel, the proud feeder of moths in winden and long standing enemy of the washing machine. if jonas wants to embrace legacy and style, he sure as hell would not stop him.

it’s a while until they both stop laughing.

no one could tamper with time. it is written. jonas and him both have ghosts. and perhaps tomorrow or in a month he would die, but these moments? time could not take them away. and it makes mikkel blissfully happy.

the crack in the world makes it grow cold and distant and the fabric of the world itself rips around them, opening and swallowing the entire timeline. it is too fast. it happens again and again, and no one ever notices.

.

.

.

.

.

mikkel doesn’t want to die.

at night, between sobs, he remembers he never went out of winden. stupid, but he had always dreamt of walking through those fields of tulips at the netherlands and visiting the tate at london. upstairs, there are at least four paintings he was commissioned and did not finish. there were sketches in the night desk next to his bed, too, and five more masterpieces he had imagined but never wrote down. no one would ever know.

back in january he had promised himself to get out more, yet he had stayed at the house. always with excuses, always with fears. yesterday he had been looking at some pendants for hannah’s birthday he would not get to gift her. he never got to show jonas that old 2018 houdini movie of his faded childhood. he did not try, not even once, to amend his relationship with the nielsen, even after hannah’s continuous lecturing of ‘yes, i remember how they bullied you, but they were children and _they_ have really changed. have you, michael?’

he wakes up to an empty side next to him. his hand lingers where he wished his wife was. have they both left already? mikkel looks at the alarm clock and yes, it is a lot later than usual.

he stares at the ceiling, feeling himself sick. no goodbyes then.

he can’t let that affect him.

so he gets up, a dead man walking, and makes the most out of his last hours.

he makes the bed slowly, for the first time taking care there are no wrinkles. picks his rumpled clothes as if it is any other day. looking around the room, he tries to leave everything as neatly as he can. at the kitchen, he makes a late breakfast for himself, only to leave it untouched. has this house always been so quiet? only it is not his house, is it? it’s still inés’. mother never liked hannah but god, he really hopes they would make paces with each other in the… the…

he takes a deep breath. maybe he could help his family with that. he would not even interfere, he would just suggest mom things. he dials inés number on his phone and waits, his heart beating wildly.

“it’s just another call” mikkel tries to calm himself, but he feels as if he might die right there and now. desperation rises like bile on his throat and his body trembles. no, he is such a fool. he can’t do it.

he cuts the call and slides the phone across the table. he puts his hands on his face and waits, counting his breaths. in through the nose, out through the mouth. that is the way things are. nobody, not even claudia tiedemann asked him if he had the guts, _he just has to do it_. it is for jonas, he remembers and that helps him feel calm again.

however, his head chooses that moment to bring back the image of his phone’s crackled screen.

where would they get the money, now? they aren’t as well off as in other times. they have enough, but without his job, hannah might have to search for a work on something else. her salary won’t sustain them.

mikkel shakes his head from side to side, as if he could take away worries with simple movements. unable to bear it any longer, he gets up and makes his way to the attic. head down, he puts one foot in front of the other. reaching the stairs he pauses.

that’s when he hears it.

the creak in the wooden floor. 

like waking up from a trance, mikkel turns his body and finds an stranger behind him. his mouth makes a small “o” of surprise and before he can understand any of it, the other man raises a metallic object and hits him in the head.

hours later, he wakes up somewhere unknown. his back is pressed against a metal bench and he lies facing the low ceiling. his head still hurting on the side, he tries to touch the bruise to realize his hands are tied by thin rope. he tries to kick himself up, and sees that so are his feet.

there is the sound of a a boot sole sliding on the floor, and he cranks his neck fast, making it hurt. the stranger sits on the opposite bench, watching the palms of his hands. at his feet, lays the silvery tube he used against him. mikkel’s breath quickens in fear, unsure of what to do. try to break free and attack? it’s a good knot, he finds it hard to wiggle his wrists and he can’t move his ankles. besides, he has never been a fighter. does he pretend to be asleep and wait until he leaves? no, no. that is not a plan. and he knows he is not meant to be there.

so he turns to the stranger and calls to him.

“what is this?!” he exclaims “who are you?!”

the stranger looks to him, indifferent. he is slouching on his seat, about the same age and complexion as mikkel. messy, unkempt hair and beard covers half his face. he knows everybody from winden, and this man is an outsider. one with something oddly familiar in him.

“this is a mistake” he continues between heavy breaths. in vain he struggles with the rope, he would never break them. idly, he wonders if it is the same rope he had stored in the house, the one he had moved to the attic. he had meant to hang himself with it. the universe does have a twisted humor sense.

the stranger looks suddenly grim. he hides his hands in the dirty coat’s pockets.

“man, you can’t do-“

“this” he speaks between his teeth “is no mistake.”

a kidnapping then? no, this makes no sense.

“look, we don’t have a lot of money, but i’ll give you anything you want. just let me go.”

“i want you stop dying.” 

he stops, speechless. just then, the man hiccups and mikkel can see his eyes water before he covers his face.

mikkel blinks once, and then twice.

maybe it had taken hannah lengthy explanations and more than one proof to believe in his son, but mikkel had spent jonas’ entire childhood by his side, raising him like he was salvation. he had recognize his son anywhere, in any form.

“jonas” he says finally, feeling his heart grow heavy “you can’t save me.”

he shakes his head and every hope of mikkel having erred fade away. couldn’t they go back to the kidnapping? he feels it will take much more than money to get away from there.

“i can’t lose you.”

“god doesn’t-.“

“i don’t care about god! i don’t care about the big plan or the universe or anything! if i must sacrifice you then it is not worth it.” his pain splits from every syllable and he is clutching his chest and god, it makes his insides twist and hit his head on the metal. it is too painful.

_this is his son? this is his bright and kind son?_

“jonas, please…” his voice breaks and he tries again, a bit more strong. “jonas, you have to untie me.”

he is shaking his head side to side, refusing.

“i won’t leave, i promise.”

older jonas stands up and paces the room. his breath comes in quick, irregular intervals. there is a desperate edge when he finally stops with his circles. he raises both hands and starts gesticulating and drawing circles in the air:

“i let you go, you die, i live, then i die and i make you die and then you die for me. we are all trapped in this circle. it goes over and over again. is this right?” he stops on his tracks to stare at him, head slightly crooked, a child looking for guidance. “should we not break it? tell me what am i doing wrong- oh, i don’t want this. but i’ve been _everywhen_ and i don’t know anymore…”

“son…” mikkel opens his mouth and then closes it. he tries one more time. “please, i can’t hold a conversation with you like this.”

jonas wavers, undecided on his feet. his cheeks are still humid and his ears red. mikkel can still remember all the times he had known his son had been crying because of his ears. he had thought that hanging himself would save his son, but maybe it won’t. he doesn’t look saved. he looks like the world has taken a kick to him throughout his entire life. like he has seen things no men should see. he looks broken.

with his shoulders slumped and a far away look, he kneels to his father. head down, he takes off the knots and when his father is able to sit, he remains in front of him, on his knees.

“you don’t know” he chokes on his words “how sorry I am” and the man crumbles, defeated. tears fall down his eyes and to his beard and his clothes. if his father does not cry, it’s because his sadness is too great to be expressed. it’s like someone has torn a hole in his very soul and he is a mere spectator away, watching everything from afar. how he places both his hands on the sides of his son’s face and finds his eyes. the same shade since birth, yet so different. he remembers how once, in art school he was shown the pictures of soldiers before and after battle. they could appreciate then how the same face changed when confronted with death itself.

this jonas, who would always be his jonas, had seen death too many times and it showed. 

“there has got to be an answer. some kind of middle ground…” his thoughts drift off in possibilities, and for the first time in three decades mikkel wishes he understood the time that governed them.

“everything goes downhill from your death, dad. i can’t take it anymore.” he replies, making his body smaller, hiding. “how many more people must suffer? when does it end?” 

as in response, his father puts a hand on his shoulder and stays in silence.

this is not a happy ending. when they both fall asleep in the bunker, they are exhausted from the fight against destiny. it doesn’t get any easier every time they lose, getting less answers than before. it’s almost a mercy when the world reboots itself at the start of the paradox.

.

.

.

.

.

it is a strong rope. natural fiber, of a light color and twisted. mikkel enrolls it twice around his left arm and unrolls it again, feeling its texture on his long fingers. then he lets go, seeing it hang in the air. he looks up. funny how the beams of the house are old but well-placed.

it makes him smile, even when he has no reason to.

he glances around the room and his eyes dart immediately to the letter on his desk. he hopes he had poured every feeling he had in it. that it says enough to speak for what he has inevitably forgotten. and he hopes it will be enough.

mikkel stands up on the chair and he feels this is all a show. the world, time itself is a stage and he is _mikkel the magician_! finally returning! making a last number that he does not understand nor does he want to. it’s a bit like magic, time-traveling.

it’s such a fresh breath, how putting the rope around his neck brings back pieces of him he thought lost. he has been playing michael kahnwald for so long. his heart and soul ached to be mikkel nielsen again.

and he is, for a last time.

the mikkel who held jonas’ hand in a dark cave, his trust bigger than his fear. the mikkel who lost his world and his time, and when he finally got it back he was not himself anymore. the mikkel who held a miserable jonas as if he had never let go but kept his eyes on old claudia tiedemann, the white devil, and nodded. the mikkel who walked the stairs scared, regretful and human to the studio and there was no one to stop him.

the mikkel who saw the parts of this machine and understood time is no delicate balance. it is tied to human behavior and events and relationships and most of all, love. he knows. there is no world in which he doesn’t choose jonas.

he kicks the chair.

**Author's Note:**

> this was not meant to be this loooong and i dunno why this took me like an eternity to write but please, please, please tell me you are just as affected by dark as i am.


End file.
